And then, in the third week of September, Denton announced he had good news and bad news. The mills had postponed the start of grinding until the middle of October — that was the good news, because it meant they had two more weeks to plant and maybe a couple days to catch their breath. The bad news was that the 4840’s engine had blown out, and since he couldn’t find used replacement parts, they would have to order new ones; the cheapest estimate was eight thousand dollars.
“We can’t plant without that tractor,” Denton said. He picked through the crumpled papers stuffed above his sun visor and handed Charley the estimate. “Time for you to pull that rabbit out of your hat.”
In her bedroom that evening, Charley folded the T-shirt Micah had thrown over The Cane Cutter and looked directly into his eyes. A braver woman would go ahead and sell, Charley thought; a more practical woman would add up the ongoing expenses and the unpaid invoices, consider the look of despair on Denton’s face every time he scribbled figures on the yellow pad, and there would be no question. But Charley didn’t think of herself as practical and she certainly didn’t feel brave. She slipped under the covers, pulled the sheet over her head, and curled into a ball, but she couldn’t get Denton’s face out of her mind. On the phone the next morning, Charley asked the operator for the numbers of all the New Orleans auction houses. A queasy feeling settled over her as she dialed.
• • •
Friday evening now, and Charley eyed the pile of clothes on her bed — the black wool suit she wore to her father’s memorial, the jeans skirt she’d owned since grad school, the yellow checked blouse with the Peter Pan collar that made her look too much like a schoolgirl. Everything she owned was too wrinkled, too heavy for the weather, or out of style. She stepped into her only pair of jeans that didn’t have oil on the knees.
On the air mattress, Micah picked through Charley’s makeup case, tested a lipstick on the back of her hand. “A date,” she said, “that’s gross.”
“It’s not a date.” Charley shed the jeans and peeled a green halter dress from its wire hanger.
“If you’re wearing that dress, it’s a date, Mom.” Micah drew a black line along her eyelid. “Are you gonna flirt?”
“Flirting is for cheerleaders,” Charley said. “God, this dress makes me look pregnant.”
“Then how’d you get a date?” Micah widened her eyes. The mascara wand licked the tips of her lashes. “Are you gonna go to second base?”
“Second—what? Okay, that’s it. No more PG-thirteen movies.”
In the end, Charley decided on a plain black skirt she used to teach in, and the blouse she wore when she visited Mr. Denton the first time. She looked at her reflection and sighed.
“Those shoes make your feet look huge,” Micah said.
Charley snapped eye shadow pallets shut, scooped up lip pencils and pots of blush she hadn’t worn in years. Other than the light coat of gloss on her lips, her face was bare.
“How late can we stay up?” Micah asked. She’d made two friends at school and had invited them over to watch movies.
“Ten thirty,” Charley said. “But you have to help Miss Honey with the dishes.”
Micah rolled onto her stomach and rested her chin on a pillow. “Moms shouldn’t date. It should be illegal.”
“And don’t call unless it’s an emergency. I’m not kidding,” Charley said, and thought, I’m too old for this. But on her way out of the room, she touched the The Cane Cutter for good luck.
• • •
Remy Newell took a road that snaked lazily along the bayou where lily pads the size of elephant ears grew in clumps on the banks, and tree branches, willow and tupelo, dipped down to touch the slow-moving current. As the bayou turned, Charley caught a glimpse of a small aluminum boat anchored a few feet from shore and a fisherman gently lifting his pole and letting it fall as he tested his line. They passed plantation homes, old and grand, with sweeping verandas, tin-roofed Cajun cabins made of cypress, Creole cottages with gingerbread around the windows, and as the day’s light waned, Charley leaned back, content just to ride.
“Your place is looking better,” Remy said, breaking the silence. “That second quadrant is coming back real strong.”
Charley looked at Remy. He’d traded his T-shirt for a striped oxford rolled to his wrists, his dusty Wranglers for a new pair, stiff and lightly creased down the front, but he still wore his work boots, which was sort of reassuring because it meant they weren’t on a date after all. Just two farmers blowing off steam over a couple of beers. Still, he cleaned up well.
“Not fast enough,” she said, and pushed thoughts of her low bank balance out of her mind. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” she said, then added, softly, “Well, the second hardest.”
“The first?” Remy said.
“Raising a daughter.”
Remy nodded, and seemed to consider Charley’s answer, but he didn’t probe.
They crossed the bayou again as the road turned, and lost the radio signal. Remy toyed with the dial till he found a zydeco waltz; the melancholic whine of the accordion, the singer’s voice full of resignation and longing, wafted through the speakers.
Remy sang along for a few bars. “You speak French?”
“I wish,” Charley said, thinking of Micah. “Just some high school Spanish, and even that leaves a lot to be desired.”
For a while, they discussed the benefits and challenges of hiring migrant farm labor, the rising price of health insurance and workman’s comp, but eventually, just as Charley knew it would, their conversation turned to the subject of marriage and family.
“You have just one?” Remy asked.
“Just one.” Charley scrounged through her purse for the single picture she carried: Micah leaning against a bright red door, grinning with permanent teeth that looked too big for her mouth. Charley handed the picture over. “She’s eleven.”
Remy steered with one hand as he held the photograph up to the window. “She’s a pistol, I can tell.”
“You have no idea.”
He studied the picture again, then looked at Charley. “Where’s her daddy?”
Remy was so easy to talk to that Charley was surprised the subject of spouses hadn’t come up before now. “He died four years ago,” Charley said. “We were coming back from the movies and two guys tried to mug us. He tried to be the hero but they had guns.”
“I’m sorry.”
Charley slid Micah’s picture back into her wallet. With every passing day, that other world, her old life, felt as though it belonged to someone else. Three and a half months and there was so much about it she’d forgotten. Charley looked at Remy again. His hair was thicker than she’d noticed and the tops of his ears were sunburned. “What about you?”
Remy drummed the wheel with his fingertips. “Divorced,” he said. “Didn’t last long. She said she didn’t get married to be a farmer’s wife.”
“What did she want you to do?”
Remy shrugged. “Business, I guess. Management, sales — hell, even politics, not that I have the stomach for it; I don’t think she cared as long as it didn’t have anything to do with farming.” He looked out the window, forlornly. “But I’ve worked around cane since I was sixteen. You name it, I’ve done it. It’s who I am. Used to come home from college every weekend during grinding just to smell the burned sugar in the air.”